


Branded

by Ceminar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Bondage, Branding, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flogging, Gang Rape, Gangbang, Humanstuck, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scumbag Rufioh, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceminar/pseuds/Ceminar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were Rufioh Nitram. The kindest, coolest, most amazing person any of your friends ever met. And you put every ounce of care into maintaining that persona. Because they didn't need to know what you were really like. Not yet. Not until you have decided if you want them to be one of your newest 'dolls'. You prided yourself on your self control above all. Which is why you haven't turned this pony into glue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Branded

**Author's Note:**

> This marks the events eluded to in my previous work, Happy Holidays. As before in my writings of anything pertaining to one Rufioh Nitram, triggers and abuse abound. If I have mistakenly tagged something or forgot to all together, please do not hesitate to inform me so I may correct it. I promise it is not on purpose.
> 
> With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy the story! And remember, nobody wants or deserves a Rufioh (at least not this one.)

You almost missed these sounds. The crack of the whip in your hand, how easily it whipped through the air, bit into the flesh of the creature at your booted feet. You swore you could hear, if you listened close enough, skin breaking, weeping tears of crimson that danced down to the floor. But mostly, it was the muffled sobs. How he tried so hard to keep it together for you, but every blow was punctuated by a cry, a whimper that would have had a lesser man eager to sink into the tender, burning flesh just to satisfy their own needs.

But you were no lesser man. Oh, no. You were Rufioh Nitram. The kindest, coolest, most amazing person any of your friends ever met. And you put every ounce of care into maintaining that persona. Because they didn't need to know what you were really like. Not yet. Not until you have decided if you want them to be one of your newest 'dolls'. You prided yourself on your self control above all. Which is why you haven't turned this pony into glue.

Then again, what fun would it be if he were dead?

One last blow, and you give your lover a moment to breath. Not for his own sake, considering you've choked him and fucked him to the point he's passed out from lack of oxygen, no. Never that. You give him that moment so you can hear yourself speak. Does he know why you're punishing him, you ask, tone level, almost patient. When he doesn't answer, the tip of the tool in your hand snaps by his ear and he sobs.

You ask again, more sternly this time.

Because he forgot himself, he chokes out. His voice is thick with tears and pain and it's beautiful. He forgot himself. He went to another for what he thought was comfort. He let himself be tainted by someone else, someone who only wanted him to hurt him. To make him believe he was wanted when only you could want him. This was what he deserved. This was his pittance for betraying the trust of the man he loved, the only one who cared enough about him to keep him in line.

If it wasn't for how you braided his hair back, pinned it into a bun on the top of his head, you know for a fact he would be trying to hide his tear and snot streaked face behind his natural curtain of hair. But he didn't even have those stupid glasses of his. They had been broken the moment he walked back into your home, sent flying to the ground from the open-palm slap to the face before being crushed underfoot. Even still, those deep blues tried to look everywhere but back at you, the position you had him in helping ever so slightly. It was very difficult to look back, after all, when you're forced to your knees with arms pulled back.

With a nod, you drag the whip down his quickly bruising back, smirking as he shudders. That's exactly right, doll. You tell him that it's good he knows what he did wrong. That he realizes you are the only one with the ability to mold him into something remotely good. That any other person would just use him as the butt of a joke to make themselves feel better. They could tell by looking at him that he's used, that he could be swayed to going with them, to take advantage of the naive foal. You tell him, in a falsely sweet voice that you aren't angry with him, but are doing this for his own good. So that he learns that only you and you alone can be trusted.

Through his sobs, you can hear him thank you, still so scared, but there's a barest hint of joy in it that makes you want to tear his vocal chords out with your bare hands. How pathetic can one be? For how long will he believe your lies? Think your abuse a sign of love? He's so in love with you, trusting of you, molded by you it's sad. But he thanks you again, for the lessons. For the reminders, for the times spent together like this. He thanks you for keeping him and you can't stop your hand from bringing the whip down one more time, just to hear the pain and fear creep back into his voice.

You promise him the ultimate reminder of who he belongs to. Of who loves him. He managed to crane his head back enough that you could just barely see the deep blue of his eyes, trying to adjust himself so his ass was raised to you in spite of the awkward position, but that wasn't what you wanted. Well, it was, and the sight of those reddened cheeks certainly caused a stirring in you, but you tell him you aren't going to fuck him. Yet. He shudders, doesn't move until you start to walk away and he panics, flails, struggles like he thinks you're going to leave him like that as he calls out for you. You quiet him easily with a soft caress of the cheek, brushing a tear away with your thumb, though you would rather strike him across the face with the whip. You will be just a minute, so he needs to be good. With that, you go to your bedroom, separate, of course, from your Doll's. You root through drawer and dresser, finally finding what you were looking for in the closet.

His gift to you when you first started dating. Your fairy wing belt buckle.

With a dark grin, you pull out your phone as well, already moving to the kitchen as you send out a text, hit up message boards. Just an address, a few words and pictures, a time to arrive as you fish out the mini stove from your last camping trip. It's quite to set up, and the heat from the little gas flame is comfortable to you as you set the buckle on it with a makeshift handle, ignoring the confused and worried look that passes over his face now that you've returned. You only acknowledge him once the metal is red hot, and you show it to him.

He's yours, you tell him. He nods. Good. You're going to mark him. Waving the brand around to show just what you mean by that and the panic is back. The beautiful fear as he tries to scramble away, fighting against his bonds as they rub his skin raw.

No, no, no, he pleads. You frown, return the brand to the fire and grab his face. Those pretty blue eyes are wild and wide, looking everywhere but at you before you demand his attention with a rough jerk of his head.

'No' is a bad word. 'No' should never be spoken to you. Ever. Because, you tell him as calmly, as lovingly as you can, that means he doesn't appreciate you. 'No' means that he is ungrateful for the time and effort you put into him. Saying 'no' to you means he wishes to be punished. You love him, you lie as you wipe his tears away again. You love him so much, that knowing that word was in his vocabulary, that he would say it to you, hurt. Why would he want to hurt you? You're the only one that would ever show him actual love, and to be rejected?

It would break your heart. 

As you watch his expression turn to sorrow, apologetic even, you smile to yourself. Here he is, beaten, broken by your hand, and he's apologizing to you! You kiss him on his forehead, moving for the brand again.

This would be your special mark. To show anyone you saw it that you loved him enough for him to bear a permanent symbol of loyalty. That only you could bring him true pleasure, no matter who else tried.

And those tears welled up in his eyes again as he nodded, whispers of yes, of how he understood now. If that was what bearing your mark would mean, he would do so. Gladly he would do so. Anything for you.

You don't spare him another kiss. A pat on the cheek. Nothing. No reward for doing what's to be expected. Brand in hand, you're behind him again, smiling wide as the sound of hot metal meets skin reaches your ears. As his screams pierce the air louder, more pained than you've had the pleasure of hearing before. But he rides it out like a good boy, fists clenched tightly as he tries to press himself against the floor as you finally pull it away, almost able to taste the stink of burning flesh.

You grant little quarter after that. He's hurting so much as you look over your handiwork, the bright red where skin was scorched, left with the undeniable shape from the buckle you used, so tender and hot to the touch. Those leaking blues try to look for you again, but you settle for just imagining how proud he must look for managing not to pass out, your pants coming undone as you slide fingers into his mouth. He stills, but he learned the consequences of biting well before now, and instead licks over the digits. So he might not have been expecting to be filled after all he went through, so what? He doesn't fight as you cram spit-slick fingers into him as a half-assed attempt to prepare him for yourself.

He's beautiful, you lie, soon replacing the fingers with something you tell him he loves better. Such a strong stallion he is. Taking his lessons so well. Now he has a mark like all the best horses out there. You stoke his ego as you push into him, shushing him with kisses to his shoulder, his neck. The small bits of affection are in neat contrast to how your hips move, less worried about his pleasure than your own. But after the beating, the whipping, it's enough for his grotesque looking cock to dribble cum from the stimulation. He's getting another mark. One he'll wear inside himself. He'll remember exactly how you feel always, no matter who he's with. From the pierced tip of your cock, how it throbs inside him, fills him, stretches him, to the way your balls slap against his stinging ass and how they empty inside him, filling him to the brim with your love for him. Your patience. Your adoration.

You almost laugh as you dump your load into him as he whimpers his thanks, but that would ruin the illusion. He aches all over, knees and arms bruising from being in the position so long, bonds cutting off circulation, his ass twitching as you tuck yourself away with a content sigh after finally being able to relieve yourself in him. But you simply give his good cheek a pat and check the time.

Wait just a moment, you tell him, leaving him once more. He doesn't have much choice in the matter, but you still tell him to, grabbing towels, bottles of water, an array of gags and toys and carry them past him. He looks so hopeful, thinking you're about to clean him up, but the first knock on the door dashes those hopes. You toss him a 'reassuring' smile, turning him to face the door before answering, letting in several men he had never met before.

This is him. You don't look back as they look hungrily pass you. He's still being taught a lesson, needs to learn that other cock just aren't as nice. You hear the quiet intake of air as he almost says no and continue on. Your doll needs to be properly taken care of, and will be willing to take everything they can throw at him. They already know how well trained he is, but if needed, there are more tools available to them.

As you draw your little spiel to a close, they're already undressing. Horuss is crying for you now, and you know it'll only get louder as the first grabs him, forces his legs as far apart as he can with the bindings, commenting on the fresh mark and how he's already been prepared for them. As he works himself into your pet, another stifles any noise he could make by filling his mouth with his own cock. Soon, the two build up a rhythm and you leave them to it, settling on the couch and turning the television on. It doesn't take long before grunts of completion fill the air and you hear them fall back.

Such a good cocksucker. Better fleshlight, though. There's a splatter of fluids hitting the floor and you glance back to see one of them finishing on his bare feet. As twisted as you are, feet was one thing you never understood, but to each their own. As they continue their conversation, comparing their experiences, you catch your Doll's eyes, how filled with hurt they are. But you blow a kiss, mouth that it's for his own good. That he'll bear it for you. When he glances to the door as more enter, some looking over him as if he were the main course at a 5 star restaurant, others taking in the toys or moving to speak you to, they soon fall to the floor.

You won again. Broke him, again.

The night goes on. Man after man, using your Doll as they see fit. Ass stuffed with a multitude of toys, taking two throbbing throbbing cocks in his once tight hole at once. Never more than three in his face. At some point, he was cut loose, long hair finally free of its prison as well as they used the ebony locks as tissue, wrapping it around their members as they jerked off, covering his face, his hair in their jism. He wasn't allowed rest. Pulled from one position to another to make full use of him until the sun peeked over the horizon and they finally left him in a crumpled heap covered in a myriad of fluids of questionable sanitation levels.

With the last gone, taking a bottle of water with them, you finally approach again, standing just at the edge of the pool of debauchery.

Well? He's so tired he can barely lift his head to look your way. What did he think? None of them felt half as good as you, did they? See how rough they were? How many they made him tend at once? You promise you would never be that brutal. You even clean him up after you finish, but no one else would.

That's just how it is. No one wants a cumslut. A used jizzrag like him. They would only take him for themselves, break him and leave him for the next. But not you. You love him so much that it killed you inside to have them teach him first hand like that.

As you tell him this, he inches closer, attempting to smile at you. To thank you for your kindness once more. To promise never to take another, to act up again. He tries to touch you, and you move out of his disgusting reach.

You're so proud of him. He proved to be a true stallion. You stretch, beaming down at him, looking for a glimpse of your mark under all of his filth. For that, you tell him, he can rest where he lay. No need in moving from there, since it might be too much for him. You promise that he can clean up as soon as he wakes, starting with the floor that was ruined on his behalf. Then he can finally be allowed to bathe in something other than cum, taken care of and let the brand start healing properly. He smiles, sleepy, but sincerely, before resting his head on the ground again. He's out before he can thank you, and you simply shrug, going to your nice warm bed to sleep the day away, wondering how to wake him when the time comes.


End file.
